When I walked into homeroom, Margot fluttered her eyelashes. “Pick me up at seven?” she said.

“For…” I pretended to be confused.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” I smiled dumbly as I took my seat.

“Winter Formal, okay? Winter Formal.”

I laughed. I’d told Margot I would go along with her plan: go to Winter Formal, get photo evidence for her abuela that we attended, and immediately leave for the warm, syrupy haven of Waffle Country.

It was a good plan. It made Margot happy. And it made my parents positively ecstatic, which was useful. They had chilled out about the social stuff since the musical, but who knew how long that would last. I figured if I went to Winter Formal, maybe they’d think I really had made progress. Then I could skip Spring Fling and prom and every other school dance in existence.

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“Thanks.” Margot looked genuinely relieved I wasn’t bailing on her. I wondered what she would’ve done if I had. Probably just gone with Ethan and the other musical people. Like Jude. Was he going? Jude liking school dances wouldn’t surprise me at all. Maybe he wasn’t going because of the Diya baggage. Or maybe he was going with a date.

My brain traveled back and forth between those two scenarios so much that by the time school ended, I was thoroughly annoyed with myself.

I was waiting in the parking lot for Josie when I got a text from her saying she was getting a ride with a girl from her dance class, who was “stable” and didn’t “yell for no reason.” Guess she hadn’t forgotten about this morning. I sighed, the guilt coming back full-force.

When I got home, Josie was splayed on the couch, watching a Willa Hoang makeup tutorial. She’d been watching Willa for years and used to ask if she could try the different looks on me. I always said no, so she hadn’t asked in a long time.

As I took off my coat, Josie gave me a withering stare before flicking her eyes back to the screen.

“Look, Josie, I—” I stalled, distracted by her bare foot slung over the back cushions of the couch. She was pointing and flexing it unconsciously, her high arch curving like a hook. She had the kind of feet ballet dancers would kill for. Like mine.

“I…” I stopped again. I couldn’t apologize. What did she have to be angry about? So I’d snapped at her—so what? She could still dance. She’d be just fine. “I’m… I’m not going to stay for long, but I’m going to Winter Formal, so maybe you could do my makeup.” There. Not an apology, but something.